You are
addicted to a boy. The buzzer goes late at night and you answer because
you know it will be him. You open the door and there he is, smiling and
shifty.

He hugs
you hard and says, ‘I’m not here. You haven’t seen me.’

You
laugh.

‘You got
booze?’ he asks.

You nod.
‘Vodka,’ you say, and get two glasses from under the sink. ‘You got
weed?’ you ask.

He nods.
‘Hash. Shall I skin up?’

You nod
and pour two large vodkas. ‘Tonic or lemonade?’

He
thinks for a moment. ‘Either, I don’t mind.’

You add
tonic to both glasses and carry them to the sofa. You hand him one and
sit down cross-legged, sipping yours. You watch as he carefully burns a
sweet smelling lump of dark brown hash and crumbles it into an elaborate
origami of Rizla. You watch his jaw stiffen in concentration, the scar
on his upper lip. You watch his eyes study what his hands are doing.
When he is finished, he looks up and meets your eyes, then smiles and
lights up the spliff.

‘So,
what have you been doing?’

He
groans and rubs his face with his hands. ‘Oh, my life is just a mess!’
He looks at you and you both crack up laughing. This is a familiar
routine.

‘Seriously, what’s been going on?’

‘Give me
another vodka and I’ll tell you.’

You roll
your eyes. You down the last of your drink and pour two more, hand his
to him and sit back down. ‘Well?’

He
smirks, exhales a haze of thick, curling smoke, takes two gulps of vodka
and tonic. ‘No, nothing really. I’ve just been getting on with loads of
work.’

‘Yeah,
right!’ You snort and raise an eyebrow.

He
laughs, ‘I have, I really have! I’m building a website for a friend.’

‘Hmm...
Why are you being so cagey then?’

He
shakes his head, takes another toke and waves his hand through the fog
in a dismissive gesture. ‘I’m just being dramatic.’ He passes you the
spliff.

When
vodka drowns out reason and hash muffles thoughts, he says he is going
to your bed. You both climb under your duvet fully clothed and put your
arms around one another. You know you haven’t lost him to sleep by the
gentle rhythm of thumb on back. You decide to take a chance: a stolen
kiss. You press into him gently and tilt your head to his. For a few
moments he presses back and you taste his saliva. Then his head pulls
away and he embraces you, nuzzling your crown under his chin. There you
lie, a tangle of limbs and thoughts and desire, until sleep comes to
carry you away.

You
dream of rain, of dancing through it in your underwear. A violent,
gushing rain that drenches you to your core, washes away all that is
rotten and gnawing and dead. You’re in a field, and he’s there, asleep
on a bed made from lilos and cushions.

You try
to wake him up. ‘It’s raining,’ you tell him, ‘it’s raining, get up.’

He
smiles and pulls the blanket aside for you. You get in next to him and
lay down. You put your arms around him and suddenly you don’t care if it
rains so hard that you drown.

When you
wake in the morning, he is gone.

When he
is not with you, you feel his absence, solid and burning. Every thought
is of him - memories carried like souvenirs, hopes like precious beams
of light that turn to shade if you dare get too close.

In the
street, every shaved head is his, every corner turned a potential chance
encounter.

The next
time he calls you it is earlier than usual: a surprise. His voice echoes
down the receiver. You wonder how far away he really is.

‘Are you
busy?’

‘No.’
For him you are never busy. Friends go unmet, appointments cancelled,
opportunities missed. When you are with him, time is both endless and
fleeting.

‘Can I
come over?’

An hour
later, the doorbell goes: three short sharp buzzes. A secret code. His
signature. You answer the door. Salt lines his reddened face like snail
tracks. You hug him tentatively, uncertain of what he needs. He clings
to you. You take his hand and lead him down the narrow hallway to the
lounge where you sit on the sofa. He takes the chair next to it, a mile
away. You sit and wait, watching him. His face, blotchy red. His eyes, a
watery stare. You bite around your right thumb, impatient that a snagged
piece of skin will not give way and tear.

Eventually, you have to nudge. ‘What’s happened?’ You’re throwing him a
lifeline, a thin, tenuous link to the world you inhabit. You want
torrents and explosions, shattered ice. You can feel the well within him
bubbling over. You want to plummet to its depth, share his pain, feel it
for him…

‘I have
to go.’ Somewhere inside him, a door slams. It’s sudden and leaves you
spinning, uncertain of where you went wrong.

You
remain composed. Nod. ‘Ok.’

‘I have
to go to a friends house, score some hash.’

‘Ok.’

‘I’ll
call you tomorrow.’

‘Ok.’

He looks
inside your eyes. ‘I promise.’ He hugs you again and kisses your cheek.
Then he is gone.

You
wonder sometimes if you made him up. Perhaps he is some concoction of
your imagination, designed to complicate, or simplify, or determine your
existence. A reason to breathe.

You go
to bed.

He does
not call you the next day.

Sometimes, he comes to your flat, stays there for days, sees only you.
Sometimes, you won’t see him for a week, his phone off, his emails
unanswered. You know he has nowhere to live. You want to ask where it is
that he goes when he’s not with you. Who is he? Is there a different him
that you are missing out on? More than one? You are afraid of answers.